


Hair

by LetMeEntertainYou



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Autism, Autistic!John, Beary - Freeform, Gen, Hair Pulling, Stimming, harmful stims
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 14:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18853024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetMeEntertainYou/pseuds/LetMeEntertainYou
Summary: Hair pulling luckily wasn’t a stim John engaged with frequently. Only when he got anxious and felt off did his pesky fingers start to thread themselves into his locks and begin to pull.





	Hair

**Author's Note:**

> My blog is Disabled-Queen-HC on tumblr.  
> Anon asked: i had an idea for a ficlet (but don’t feel inclined to do it) of Deacy feeling bad about stimming and harming himself because of it (primarily pulling his hair out). But the band (and Beary!) comforts him and tells him it’s completely fine to stim.

_Twirl, Twirl, Yank._

_Twirl, Twirl, Yank._

_Twirl, Twirl-_

“Hey, Deacy, what’s going on?” a voice asked.

John was pulled back from his thoughts, blinking as the world around him took shape once again. A nervous hand fell from his hair, eyes scanning the room for the source of the voice.

Brian stood before him, a soft smile on his face, hunched over so he could better see John who sat on the floor in a corner of the room.

“You doing okay there?” He asked, his gaze going from the youngest to the carpet that was littered in long brown hairs. 

Hair pulling luckily wasn’t a stim John engaged with frequently. Only when he got anxious and felt off did his pesky fingers start to thread themselves into his locks and begin to pull. 

And right now, he felt all the things that lead him to do that. It was just the four of them in the studio, goofing around when they should have been writing, but John didn’t feel good. The studio lights used to be a warm white but they got replaced that weekend and were now a cool white that hurt his eyes. Not to mention the A/C kept humming and shuttering every so often, in desperate need of a tune up. It wasn’t anything major, but it was enough to make John a little apprehensive.

He didn’t tell anyone though because it was silly, wasn’t it? The light bulbs were replaced. It shouldn’t be a big deal. It should be something he could handle himself. And in a way he did. He scampered off into a ill-lit corner and dealt with the anxiety the only way he knew how.

John looked down at his lap, face going red when he saw just how much hair was on him and the floor around him. He looked to his hand to find more hairs stuck under his finger nails, a few specks of blood from when he pulled too hard.

“I-I’m not okay, I think,” he whispered, a few fingers unconsciously going back into his hair. 

Brian plopped himself on the floor, grabbing at John’s hand and holding it between his own. “Hey, hey. You can tell me or Roger or Fred, whoever you want, what’s wrong. But don’t do that, okay? We can try and help but don’t hurt yourself,” he said, voice soft and hazel eyes sincere. 

John’s lips parted, shoulders growing stiff. He didn’t like to be touched when he wasn’t feeling well. Brian acknowledged that, but continued to hold his hand, not tight, but firm enough that he couldn’t pull it away.

He wasn’t quite sure what the deal was here. He wasn’t hurting himself. The stimming felt  _good_. Pulling a strand out of his scalp sent little tingles all over his body, a rush of relief washing over him. It was soothing. Comforting. It was good. At least that’s what he thought. If it felt pleasurable, there was no way it could be bad, right?

John had a hard time finding his words, the lights from above still bothering him. He shut his eyes, stuttering out some syllables but nothing intelligible came forth. Brian just nodded, waiting for John to say whatever he needed to, but it never happened. 

While Brian was really good with John, he wasn’t the best. Not with deciphering what was bothering John. Brian was good for talking and listening to John’s special interests. Freddie was fantastic at comforting, especially during meltdowns. Roger, for some unknown reason, was the one who could read John like a book. So Brian held a finger up, signalling for John to wait and got up, looking for the blond. He couldn’t solve this mystery, obviously, but it didn’t mean John had to suffer for it.

A few minutes later, John could hear Roger approaching, a familiar friend in hand. John must’ve left Beary behind in his rush to calm himself down in the corner. 

Roger crouched down in front of John, holding Beary out for John to take. John rushed to grab his bear, snatching him to his chest, nose pressing into the top of Beary’s head. The soft fur would always be his favorite sensation, whether he was happy or sad. The one constant stim he could engage in no matter the mood.

It took a little for John to relax, cuddling up to Beary but once he did, the words he wanted to say to Brian came tumbling out.

“I’m not doing anything bad,” he said, his face shifting into that of child who was trying to plead their innocence.

“Oh goodness, John. Of course you’re not. I’m not here to scold you. ‘M not your dad, y’know,” Roger said, eyebrows raised. That put John at ease, back resting against the wall again.

“Why was Brian concerned, then?” He asked, looking over Roger’s shoulder to see Brian, talking in a hushed tone with Freddie. 

“Oh, well, uh,” Roger mumbled, thinking of how to phrase it as he idly played with a few strands of loose hair on the floor. “I think he- and the rest of us- are just concerned about the pain hair pulling causes,” he continued, hoping it was a good start.

“But, it feels nice. It doesn’t hurt at all,” John said, holding Beary to his chest defensively.

Roger contemplated that for a second before speaking again. “Sometimes things that are bad for us can feel good. Like smoking, heh. It feels fantastic but I know it’s ruining my lungs,” the malboros in his pocket became heavy. He really needed to quit…not the time to think about that, though.

“Pulling my hair isn’t going to hurt my lungs,” John said, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He didn’t get the analogy Roger was using.

“Oh! No, god no. I meant. Uh. Look at your hand, Deacy,” Roger pointed to some bigger splotches of red. “Blood only comes out when we get hurt. Even if it feels good, you were hurting yourself,”

That made sense to John. He looked at all the red dots on his hand, saying a small and faint “Oh,” 

“And I bet your head is real tender, right?” Roger asked, head tilting.

John gently pat the top of his head, wincing at the horrible feeling that accompanied the touch. It was starting to click for him.

“Okay. So, what do I do?” John asked, really asking what to do when he felt the need to stim like that again.

“You just tell us, or me- let’s be real, me, ‘cuz I’m your favorite- and we’ll try to help! There’s no reason for you to be dealing with this alone, Deacy. Don’t be shy,” Roger said with a smile, giving John’s shoulder a light squeeze. 

John did not have favorites, but he nodded.

“And, I’m gonna take a wild guess and say the lights are bothering you?” he added, craning his head back to take a look at the blaring lights. He reached into his shirt pocket, producing a pair of sunglasses and handed them to John. They were prescription but it was better than nothing.

John hurriedly put them on, the corner of his lips tugging up as the room dimmed considerably. Already, he could feel his brain working better, the crowding and chaos growing quieter. The A/C was still a bit of a bother, but with the glasses, he could work through it.

John happy flapped which made Roger grin and clap.

“I like that! A good stim!” he said, making John blush.

After that, the two made quick work of picking up as much hair as they could, tossing it into the bin before rejoining the others.

John held Beary tight to himself, a finger rubbing circles on his nose as he laughed and engaged with the guys, a pair of purple lensed shades on his face. It wasn’t in line with John’s sense of style but he didn’t care. He could goof off with his friends, no hands in his hair and no discomfort in his gut. 

John giggled at a snide remark from Freddie, wriggling happily in his seat. Sitting next to him, Brian turned over and asked, “You good, mate?” John’s eyes crinkled as he said, “Good,”


End file.
